Page 181 - Folsom Street Blues: A Memoir of 1970s SoMa and Leatherfolk in Gay San Francisco

Folsom Street Blues 165

Up At The River

verybody needs balance in their lives, between urban
Eand rural. Sometimes the City can become overwhelming.
The need to get back to nature asserts itself. I moved up to the
River. The River referred to a seedy string of dilapidated resort
towns along the Russian River. There were vineyards, redwoods
and rednecks. Migrating gays, exiting San Francisco, were gen-
trifying the area.
In the spring of 1979, after the Camille show at the Ambush,
I got a job at the Russian River Lodge on River Road in Sonoma
County. It was a gay country campground with farmhouse
rooms, cabins, and a pool for nude swimming. I would be the
general handyman, remodel some of the cabins, fix up the rooms
in the old farmhouse, and enjoy the sights around the pool when
I wasn’t busy. What a chance to get away from it all.
One afternoon we were building a redwood deck around the
pool area. It seemed really hot. All of us were working without
shirts. I checked the thermometer. It read 114 degrees. I consulted
with Lee, the owner.
“Alright,” I said. “We’re knocking off early. Into the pool if
you want.” We all stripped naked and got in the pool. When I got
out I dried off and headed for the house. My hair was still wet. I
needed a haircut.
“Jaime,” I said, “did you bring your clippers with you?” Jaime
was a hairdresser who lived at the Russian River Lodge that sum-
mer. He lived naked except for his brown shorts and a tan nearly
as dark. He sported gold hoop rings in both ears and both nipples.
He brought to mind a chest of drawers by Salvador Dali.
“Got them right here,” Jaime said. “Ready for a haircut?”
“Got that right,” I said.
“Meet me on the front porch.”